


Grey Warden

by Whuffie



Series: Breaking the Wall [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Thom Rainier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4463789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whuffie/pseuds/Whuffie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rated Teen for language.  </p><p>This was a prompt and I incorporated it into my head canon.</p><p>Pixiedurango of Tumblr asked: Lalochezia (Emotional relief gained by using indecent or vulgar language.)</p><p>This drabble came about from my ideas about Grey Warden Blackwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey Warden

“It’s just something to keep the hands busy.”  A short knife with a razor thin blade scraped a fine layer of shavings into the campfire.  Blackwall glanced over at a sullen man across from him, and wondered what demons were behind the mask.  The recruit had already thrown away the Orlesian mask which was painted and worn in public.  Underneath was something closed, secretive, painful and angry.  He didn’t pry into anyone’s past, and pragmatically decided he’d either find out or he wouldn’t.  The Grey Wardens were the last people to judge, and they took those who showed promise with a weapon who might survive the Joining.  Some came for redemption, some for escape, but all of them were intended to do some good in the world before their Calling.  
  
If his latest recruit was plagued by demons, he wouldn’t be the first or last.  Sometime the past had to be beaten in the privacy of the soul and best never spoken about.  Others were banished with the help of others.  Blackwall had the privilege of friends who had helped him through the battles.  Of all people, he was the last who could look down on another man for any crime.  
  
Instead or wasting his time guessing what had put his recruit on the run, he put his thumb beneath a delicate place he was hollowing out of a chunk of light wood.  Carefully guiding the knife, he didn’t look up.  “It’s going to be a halla, eventually.”  Stopping to stare at the undistinguished lump, he laughed deeply and easily from his barrel chest.  “Or kindling.  Either way, it passes the time.”  
  
“Shouldn’t we post a watch?”  Unwanted memories were evoked as he watched the knife, and the younger man hitched one shoulder up under his armor irritably.  Old, disagreeable arrogance displaced his newfound humility, and he pointed out what even a novice soldier would have known.  How could a Grey Warden have survived so long without practicing something so simple?  
  
“There’s no need for it.”  Blackwall glanced up from his work and started whittling out a rough muzzle.  “You’ll understand in time.  The darkspawn aren’t close, and they keep everything else away.  No bandit will risk running into a raiding party coming up from underground.  Relax for a change.  You’ll need your strength in the next few days.”  
  
“For what?”  He demanded, and flung a log onto the fire to relieve his frustration.  Blackwall wouldn’t tell him anything.  The conscription was a favor, but didn’t he deserve to know how own fate?  
  
“You’ll see,” the Warden told him for the forth time since they’d met, and refused to answer the same as he had the previous three times.  “Here.”  He picked up a promising piece of driftwood and passed it with the knife.  “You’re skilled enough, but you could use more patience.  Try it.  The carving will relax you – make you focus on something else.  It’s good to keep the hands busy.”  Tapping his temple his eyes twinkled, “it keeps this from going in pointless circles and helps you think.”  
  
With a disgusted sigh, he took them.  It uncomfortably reminded him of another set of hands; a woman’s which were steady and thick with callouses.  The memory was unwelcome, bringing the scent of honeysuckle with it, and he shied away from it.  Sullenly, he made a swipe at the wood as if it had offended him.  
  
“You can do better than that.  Carefully.  That’s a knife, not a maul.”  
  
If it wouldn’t have been for the challenge in the sentence, no matter how mild or well placed, he would have told the Warden to go to the Void.  Fine.  If Blackwall could do it, he could.  He’d prove it, and began to picture the four legs and broad chest of a war dog.  It was a griffon once. We were told not to play with them...  Starting on a natural curve which could be the animal’s back, he began shaping it with clumsy, abrupt slices.  That lasted for a few strokes until he cut himself.  “Fuck!”  Blood dribbled liberally and he shoved his thumb into his mouth.  Swearing profusely, he jumped up and stomped in a circle, kicking up sand.  Coming up with some very colorful, if improbable descriptions of the Maker and Andraste’s parentage, he put in, “that hurts!” between the profanity.  It got louder and wound down into old favorites as he spat out the curses with a mix of dribbling blood.  
  
“If you fight half as well as you swear, you’ll be able to bring down Archdemons out of the sky.  Come here.”  The deluge of foul language paused as Blackwall took the other man by the wrist and poured a few drops of healing elixir over the wound.  “You almost took a finger off.  Be patient this time – patient and precise.  Let some of that anger go.”  
  
Thom Rainier glowered, then flopped back down on the ground.  His hand still hurt, but the wound was shut and left nothing behind but a pink scar.  He almost hated Blackwall as he picked the wood back up, but it was probably some sort of test.  If he was going to be exonerated for his crimes, he had to become a Grey Warden.  It wouldn’t ever get rid of the stains embedded in his conscience, but he could at least try to be a better person.  When he began to concentrate on forming a dog out of the wood, he tried not to think of his mother and the wooden toys he’d played with in front of the fire when he was still innocent.  It was the last day ... and he could almost smell the honeysuckle again.  
  
Shaking his head to clear it, he focused on the shape of a hound and realized he was actually enjoying himself.  Blackwall was right.  It was good to have something to do with his hands.  



End file.
